


Veni-Vidi-Vici.

by Athenafiction



Category: Cats (2019), Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber, Kingsman (Movies), Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats - T. S. Eliot
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Literally no one's a cat but the personalities are gonna be exactly the same I promise, M/M, Minor character death? Maybe, Past Rape/Non-con, a lot of death probably, actually no, gotta keep it spicy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 16:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenafiction/pseuds/Athenafiction
Summary: Long. Time. Coming.Disclaimer: all the animals in the musical are now humans.For people who are emotionally invested in the musical: the characters will keep their whacky names, and they will keep their personalities and traits we learn in their songs.For people who have no idea why they're on this side of the internet: the characters have whack-ass names, but they have nice personalities. Give them a chance.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm half asleep but I really wanted to post this. 
> 
> The Cats fandom is kinda dead and most fanfiction sticks to all of the characters being- well, CATS, ya know?
> 
> I decided to go on a mad one and add a human AU to the mix.
> 
> English isn't my first language, so please let me know if I commit a heinous crime in writing, I will remedy it ASAP and learn from my mistake.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> ~A

**Heathrow, Terminal 3. London. 11:34 am**

“Can I eat your marshmallows?” Rum Tum Tugger asked. A question to which his boyfriend, Mistoffeles, promptly nodded and let him carefully pick at the white sweets scattered over the foam of his hot chocolate.

Misto was having a very rapid-fire, tense conversation with someone over the phone in Italian. Tugger could hear disconsolate noises coming from the other end, but he didn't understand the language enough to guess at the topic of discussion - reception wasn’t good in the particular restaurant they were sitting in, fresh off their flight, so it seemed that many things were repeated with the addition of more colourful language.

The conversation gave Tugger a good amount of time to open one of their suitcases and tug out two sweaters, a token of clothing which Mistoffeles loudly missed when they crawled out of Terminal 3 of Heathrow Airport. They were lucky to return to the UK in its sudden display of sunny weather, unusual for London’s normally chilly November, as both of them were still dressed in mind for the warmer weather of Rome. But that didn’t stop the raven-haired young man from huffing up at the sky in thinly veiled disgust and requesting more wind-proof clothing.

Curiously, Misto insisted on getting food before they began their journey back to their central London apartment - dragging the pair, and their miniature army of suitcases, to a restaurant in the terminal from which he asked Tugger to plan the least busy route back home while he went on a call. The place was decorated for the Christmas season - toy snowmen and elves were pinned to walls or balanced on picture frames, mini Christmas trees were scattered around the vast interior, strung with electric lights. Menus and napkins all sported the traditional white-red-green colour scheme, making the entire place feel lively and cosy.

Men and women of various ages thronged the place, sitting at round tables littered throughout the dining area. Waiters dodged around limbs, chairs and tables to serve customers. In comparison to the dreamy chaos, Misto and Tugger’s little fortification of suitcases next to their table in the corner looked scandalous, as it took up exorbitant amounts of space. Nor did Misto’s tense rambles and Tugger’s eager gaze on the food passing under his nose make the pair look any more normal. 

Tugger spied a waitress moving in their direction with purpose as he swallowed the last marshmallow in his line of sight. She was carrying a large plate of a full English and a smaller one containing a single slice of apple crumble, for Tugger and Misto respectively. She dodged a suitcase and carefully stepped over Tugger’s briefcase before delicately placing the pair’s orders on the table. Mistoffeles took a second from his conversation to smile at the girl, while Tugger gave her a lazy grin and a drawled “Thank you” that made the young woman blush and stutter an unconnected chain of words before quickly swishing away back to the counter and disappearing behind the heavy door leading to the kitchen.

His gaze stuck to the door as he pondered over the girl’s hair. _It has pink highlights in it. It looks rather good, maybe he should have his hair dyed like that. He should convince Mistoffeles too - blue would suit him. Blue would bring out his eyes_— it was at that moment that he realised that Mistoffeles had stopped talking. Tugger turned to find his boyfriend staring at him with a disbelieving expression, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Tugger gave Misto a cocky grin, fully aware of what, exactly, Misto found so annoying.

“You’re insufferable.” Misto replied, shaking his head and smiling to himself as he leaned back and brought his de-marshmallowed hot chocolate to his lips.

“In what aspect in particular?” Tugger asked, leaning in to carefully brace his elbows on the table. Mistoffeles gave him a bemused look and flushed visibly, avoiding eye contact with the man with impressive intent.

“All of them.” He finally concluded, taking a long sip from his drink. Mistoffeles’ accent was nearly imperceptible when he spoke English - his first language only becoming apparent when he was angry or unnerved. That was not surprising, as he had lived with his father in England from the age of eleven and, despite being a fluent Italian speaker, rarely exhibited his bilingual abilities when he was home. _Though_ Tugger had to admit, _he was a man that naturally carried the grace and beauty of his mother’s side of the family_.

Tugger’s line of thought paused when he saw the look on Misto’s face. He wasn’t looking at him, he was staring at his phone again - _He should really get him a new phone. Maybe for his birthday — _

“That was Electra I was speaking to,” Mistoffeles said, tone grim as he mentioned his younger sister’s name, “it seems we missed quite a lot during our holiday.”

**Queens walk, Central London. Same day. 3:21 am**

A cane hit the cobblestones with such vigour, it seemed to echo onto the other side of the Thames. It wasn’t an ordinary cane, of course; nor was its owner an ordinary conductor of business. Platinum accents along the shaft took shape of a map: blending elegantly into the handle, which took the form of a snarling tiger. It was a useful tool for its owner, supporting him through many years after an injury made irreversible damage to his left leg. Specifically crafted so that the mechanism inside was not triggered by the vibrations passing through it daily. It was the most famous and sought-after cane in London’s entire shadowy underground network - and its owner was the most sought-after gentleman Scotland Yard and the MI6 had ever had the misfortune to target.

Of course, nor the MI6 or Scotland Yard were aware that they should be looking for an auburn-haired and green-eyed man of forty-six, characterised by sharp features and an even sharper mind and tongue. They were not aware that he was of a lean build, which he covered by expensively tailored edges, nor were they ever going to guess that the professor Moriarty to their Sherlock Holmes was none other than William Macavity Lewis Jellicle, MI6’s own Deputy Director of Homeland Security.

Right across from the cane and the gentleman stood a man. He was well dressed, smelled pleasantly of expensive cologne and had the air of aristocratic impatience directed toward the presently approaching man. Macavity willed his limp to be less pronounced as he approached, trying to lean on the cane less and less, stopping a fair fifteen feet from the stranger. Instead of speaking, he tugged at his gloves and let himself curiously observe. The man in front of him was a well-built, tan-skinned blonde hovering somewhere around the age of thirty. There was a tan line on the ring finger of his left hand, which could mean a lot of things. At the moment, it meant this man was an idiot for not wearing gloves.

“I am so glad you could see me at such short notice.” American accent. Interesting. New York. Brooklyn, a little.

Macavity stayed silent. The man had clever, quick brown eyes that scanned the Londoner just as expertly as the crime lord watched in turn. A navy chesterfield coat fit snugly around the American’s shoulders – perfectly, even. A neat, grey silk scarf that did nothing to hide the expensive suit underneath hung in a simple knot around his neck. He looked like he was looking to get mugged. Any other idiot would jump at the chance. Pretty rich boy walking down the street? Definitely doesn’t watch his pockets.

He doesn’t have to – the delicate bulge of fabric at the left hip told Macavity enough of the type of firearm the man had ready. A concealed knife as well, judging by the glint of metal on the right wrist under the coat sleeve as the man shifted his position to fully face Macavity.

Or maybe he was just very happy to see him.

“You certainly know how to catch my attention,” Macavity replied. “I sincerely hope that you are not here to waste my time.” His voice twisted into a rough growl. He tightened his hands on his cane, shifting his centre of gravity on to both legs.

His people were swarming the area, hidden in the shadows. He knew the man arrived twenty minutes early. He knew he smoked a cigarette while he waited, throwing the half-lit blunt of it into the river when he was done. He then stood, looking at the river and Embankment Pier in expectant stillness, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat.

He had four gunmen pointing rifles at that man from all sides.

“I assure you, I am not.” The man replied, adopting a solemn tone. He waited for a beat, as a comedian would, before delivering a punchline. “I am here on the behalf of the Peaks and the Pollicles. I am sure you remember us.”

Macavity’s hands stiffened lightly over his cane, knuckles blanching under his gloves as he gripped the metalwork. The Peaks and the Pollicles were old rivals. Italians and Jews, both naming the New World their home and both fighting for blocks of land every chance they got like dogs in a pit. Impossible, it would seem, for them to work together. They had tried to shift their business to London a decade or so back, which proved fatal for the heads of both gangs.

Made Macavity very rich, though. Cemented him and his gang as a top player in the crime boroughs of London. Made him King of the Jungle. That profit, it seems, has come to chase him up.

“And what do the Peaks and the Pollicles find so interesting on this side of the river all of a sudden?” Macavity said, tapping an even rhythm onto the metal tiger’s head with his fingers. A signal.

“They would like to offer you a deal, Mr Jellicle.” The man replied earnestly.

The name stung. Even after two decades, it was like having someone scrape nails over a chalkboard right under his ear.

“Macavity, please. There’s no need for such formality.” He smiled pleasantly. “But, you see… last I checked, the Peaks were warring with bankruptcy and the Pollicles were warring with themselves – or was it the other way around? What can you possibly offer me that I don’t already have?” Macavity dropped his voice to a low purr. 

The man’s eyes flared open in shock for a fraction of a second before he returned his composure. _Truth or Act? _Macavity pondered.

“An exchange, Macavity. And partnership. All of the information you have on the conduct of your brother and British Intelligence. All of the information you have access to.”

The American must have forgotten his wits back home.

“In exchange for what? A partnership for what purpose?” Macavity scoffed. He cursed himself for asking too many questions. He never liked puzzles he couldn’t solve. That made him inquisitive. Maybe too much so, for a crime lord.

“In exchange for us letting you keep your life.” The man looked at him quite seriously. “And a guarantee for our people to have a part in your dealings in Europe.”

Macavity felt a bubble of pure mad, hysterical laughter form in the pit of his stomach. He subdued it, but the corners of his mouth did quirk up occasionally as he struggled through his next sentence.

“Then, my dear, we are at an impasse.” He said, twisting his hand precisely on the top of his cane. “Because you must be _completely _off your trolley if you think you’re in any position to throw your weight around in my city.”

The blonde stared at Macavity with expressionless passivity. Macavity chose then to take a step toward the man. He half-expected the shot that came from his right, skidding the stone centimetres shy of his extended right foot. He looked right into that daring brown gaze and planted his cane down, unmoving once more. 

“Seems like we’re very similar in precautions, mate, so I’ll do you a favour and spell out what’s going to happen next.” Macavity kept the violence that dug its claws around his mind in check. “You and your little band of crotch stains are going to leave to your little hole for the night. You are going to take the first flight back to _your _damn territory in the morning. Then you will march over to whoever the _hell_ has clawed their way up to the top and tell them that I’m calling in that debt from ’97 and they owe me twenty million fucking pounds for tolerating this conversation.”

The American gave an indignant huff. “You just love makin’ things hard for yourself.”

“I’ll add another five million for that comment. And another two for sending such a spectacular prick for parlay. Consider it interest, for the years you didn’t even think of sending me a dollar.”

The blonde shifted his gaze around. He didn’t seem impressed or intimidated. Or alive, really. He stared at Macavity with the dispassionate gaze of a seasoned sales worker dealing with a particularly nasty customer.

“Macavity, the great escape artist, the Napoleon of crime. How are you going to get yourself out of this one?”

“Don’t do anything stupid now, mate,” Macavity said. “although I’m sure that comes naturally.” He eyed the surrounding buildings suggestively, causing the blonde to give his own quick sweep of the roof and the top floor windows. 

“No, nothing like that.” The man agreed, reaching into that left-hand pocket of his coat. “Your position seems quite clear now.” 

Macavity had a split second to chide himself for not demanding this exchange to be done on neutral ground before he twisted the handle of his cane, making the mechanism pop and click, letting loose a handgun. Which he dutifully pointed at the American, smiling pleasantly. His heart beat in his throat.

The other man was holding his own firearm in a bemused fashion, looking down at it, lost in thought.

“I was going to go after your brother, initially. He would have been so much easier to handle.” The man gave Macavity an upward glance, his gaze passing over the gun pointed at him as one would dismiss a movie prop. “I had this elaborate plan to set up a new world…” He trailed off, a maddening grin stretching the corners of his thin mouth.

_Where the hell is Durand?_

“But I think I’ll settle for ending yours.”

One.

Two.

Three.

Three shots, all quick and precise, the first two hitting him square in the chest and the third skimming just shy of his right carotid. It wasn’t the man who was shooting. The shots came from London Bridge. He yielded a few steps, vision dancing like a drug trip, and tried to aim the barrel of his gun in the general direction of his attacker. Trying not to let the impact send him flying. 

_Where the HELL was his backup?_

He tripped on something. Probably his own damn feet. Fired two shots, hoping to get lucky. Fell back, catching himself on his left elbow. He heard a crack but didn’t feel it. Maybe it wasn’t him that was breaking. He dropped back completely, chest protesting in a deep ache when his back collided with the ground.

_Why did living suddenly hurt?_

He tried to open his mouth. Black and red dots clouded his vision when he tried to force air back into his body. Coughing made the pain spread through his entire ribcage. He was going into shock and he couldn’t stop it. It’s the shock that kills you, isn’t it? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember his own name.

A rhythmic pounding somewhere close to his head made him yank his head to the left. A shadow passed over him, blocking out the yellow of the street light. He raised his right hand to point the gun at the shadow, only to find that it wasn’t there anymore. His hand was a strange colour. 

“I’m Justice Elliot Peak, by the way.” Macavity’s vision was tinting red at the edges. Was the world always so blurry? “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

_ImgonnafuckingdieImgonnafuckingdieImgonnafuckingdieImgonnafuckingdie_

There was a sound of rushing air and a sharp jab on the side of his head, and Macavity’s world went black. 


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, planning to post another very soon. 
> 
> I made a pinterest board with an approximation of how each character mentioned in the story looks - I will add more character models as the story progresses and new people arrive. If you're interested, check it out:  
https://www.pinterest.co.uk/agrace2134/cats-characters/ 
> 
> The names of the characters can be seen when actually clicking on the pin :)
> 
> ~A

**Heathrow, Terminal 3. Valet Parking pick up zone. 12:36pm**

Mistoffeles tugged at the sleeves of his sweater, trying to use his nervous energy to warm up while he and Tugger waited outside the terminal building for the valet to bring their car around. Next to him, Tugger was animatedly tapping into his phone and desperately trying to finish off a cigarette, fingertips steadily getting paler in the cool air. He smoked it to the filter, tapped the lit end against the metal lid of a bin on his left and threw the extinguished blunt into the depths of the non-recycling section. Mistoffeles observed the motions with tentative attention, a habit he obtained in childhood after a long period of obsession with the Sherlock Holmes series.

Tugger’s riot of chestnut hair was cut in a deliberate way that made him always look perfect, but in a I-just-got-out-of-bed-and-didn’t-make-an-effort manner. Actually, his entire persona seemed to be fitted around that form of aesthetic. Even now, while Misto was stiffly standing next to him, trying not to freeze his _cazzo _off, He was wandering around in a pair of long jean shorts and a light grey t-shirt, his maroon sweater tied around his waist in a ‘just in case’ fashion. He didn’t even deign to look a _bit _on the cold side.

Tugger gave Misto a self-satisfied glance and loosely wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Cold?” Tugger smirked, angling himself to press a kiss to the top of Misto’s head. Mistoffeles perched his head on Tugger’s shoulder and hummed idly, causing the taller man to laugh.

“I’m going to die if we’re not in the car within five minutes,” Misto replied matter-of-factly, wrapping an arm around Tugger’s waist in return, savouring the body heat. “I need to go to the King Street office as soon as we get back.” He added, mostly thinking out loud. 

Tugger’s eyes faltered in their humorous twinkle. They were distracting – one hazel and one a clear, iridescent blue. They first earned him a small place in the realm of modelling when he was younger, but have now turned him into a memorable figure in the fashion industry. Mistoffeles felt the corners of his mouth twist downward and his brows furrow slightly, mimicking Tugger’s change of mood. 

“Electra really did sound worried. I know she didn't tell me anything specific, but... Admetus isn’t answering any of my texts –” He froze, spotting their car in the distance, approaching at a lazy speed. “I just think things might be going tits up again with the business.” He added in a hushed tone, aware of stares directed in their general direction as the valet got out of their Bentley and handed Misto the keys with a top-notch customer service smile.

The business Mistoffeles mentioned wasn’t exactly the hushed-tone type, but it was close enough to what his uncle Macavity did that his family only ever talked about the Jellicle Consultations Ltd as the only company they owned. In truth, their considerable income came from more complicated sources.

From a time of gangsters and even back to times of Queen Victoria, his family had owned multiple plots of land in Soho, London and other major city centres around the world. From these ownerships sprouted ownerships of many elite bars, casinos, theatres and pubs that brought his family an impressive amount of money by the start of the roaring ’20s. And, at that point, the massive wealth was put into the creation of an organisation to rival the then struggling British Secret Service. More technologically advanced, more secret, more efficient. The initial aim was to control the rising gang activity that was appearing throughout London, Birmingham and Manchester. The Peaky Blinders, The Changrettas, The Tottenham Mandem, The Clerkenwell crime syndicate – all of them did their bit in furthering England’s economy, creating its history. The Jellicle Initiative was simply there to eliminate the unwanted collateral.

During the second world war, they aided the newly formed MI5 and MI6 on various decoding missions, sending trained heirs and agents of the Initiative into German territory to play spy. Some died in service for the JI. Most didn’t return from the war draft.

During the Cold War, they kept the world from erupting into Armageddon behind the scenes. During the 90’s they worked alongside authorities to diminish the effect of the opioid crisis. Not that any of the authorities knew the Initiative was doing most of the work.

At the turn of the century, the first rift in the family occurred. Misto wasn’t sure why, his father never told him what happened in detail – but shots were fired in Prague on Christmas Day of 1999. Munkustrap, the elder brother and the named heir to the business of four days, parted ways with his younger brother. William Macavity Lewis Jellicle. 

It sounded peaceful. Parted ways. But they nearly killed each other that night. They were on a double mission, zeroing in on their target. Then, something happened. His father still had a scar along his left mandible where Macavity’s knife came too close to taking his life. The family presumed Macavity dead after that. They thought he perished in the explosion his father set off as soon as he got out of the National Theatre, a desperate resort to prevent the target from doing something very stupid.

But he came back. Limping, five years later. Just in time to catch an underground gang war, between the London boroughs and the ambitiously minded gang, the American Peaks, that he quickly took advantage of to claw his way up to overlord. He was an overbearing shadow on the Jellicle family ever since, poking holes in their plans with aggravating ease and making any missions operated anywhere in the world – especially within London - twenty times more dangerous than missions already were, with an organisation that had reach practically anywhere and rivalled the Jellicle Initiative in progress and notoriety in the crime world.

“Misto… oh for fuck's sake, earth to Mistoffeles Jellicle-Moretti!” Tugger was waving a hand in front of Misto’s eyes. Misto blinked, confused and still half out of this world in his thoughts.

“Welcome back. Do you want to drive, or shall I?” Tugger asked gently, peering down at Mistoffeles’s face as he detached himself and began dragging three massive suitcases towards their car. Misto shook his head again to clear his head.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll drive.” He replied, grabbing the last suitcase and dragging its considerable weight towards the car as well.

“I think the early start today is getting to you,” Tugger noted, helping Misto lug his half-hearted contribution into the trunk. “Can you leave the hurry to see your family until tomorrow?”

Mistoffeles gave a long-suffering sign, staring at nothing in particular.

“I appreciate the concern,” He gave Tugger’s lips a peck as he shifted past him to get to the right side of the car. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if I don’t do that today.”

“You need to take a break, Misto,” Tugger said. Mistoffeles opened the driver’s car door and didn’t meet his eyes as he got in, effectively avoiding the statement. Tugger yanked the passenger door open and sat down as well, throwing his backpack nonchalantly onto the back seat.

“I’m being serious.” Tugger pushed.

“So am I, Rum.” Mistoffeles turned his head to look at Tugger. “I’m not thrilled to be thrown problems to solve the minute I come back from a holiday, but when you’re the one in the field agent ranks with preternatural … whatever, they just expect you to.” Misto looked at his open palms in disgust. Clenched them into fists.

“I know that,” Tugger said carefully. “I know you feel like you’re responsible for the whole world. You could barely relax our entire trip. As much as I love you in action –” he flashed Misto a cocky grin, which his boyfriend couldn’t help but return, just for a second. “you can’t be responsible for the whole world.”

Mistoffeles let Tugger reach over and take his left arm into his, gently rolling the pads of his fingers under Misto’s, forcing his fist to loosen. It was moments like these in which Mistoffeles truly believed he was the wrong person to have been born with his – he’ll just admit it, however vile the word sounded – Powers. Abilities. He was under no impression that he was the only phenomenon. He knew most of the ones who went public about it were taken by their respective countries’ intelligence services and were never heard from again, branded as dangers to society by the media. Maybe they were, all of them, and Mistoffeles was selfish in trying to live a normal life. As normal as a life of someone part of an underground spy organisation can be.

“On top of that,” Tugger said into the silence, threading his fingers through Misto’s and letting their linked hands rest on top of the glove compartment behind the gearstick, “we don’t know why Electra’s so riled up. Knowing her, it might be nothing.”

Misto thought about that for a second. “Maybe,” He admitted, “but it’s better for me to just talk to dad about it.”

“For as long as I’ve known him, Munkustrap doesn’t hand out information just like that. You’ll just get a lecture and extra rounds during training for having the nerve.” Tugger said. Misto knew he was right – his father wasn’t exactly famous for being soft on family members that made their way into the ranks of agents. If anything, he was harsher than normal. A complete asshole, actually. 

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Someone has to.”

Smiling at that, Mistoffeles gave Tugger’s hand a gratified squeeze and let go in order to fish for the car keys in his pocket. He was quiet for a few minutes as he started the car and began the tedious journey out of the airport and on to the M25.

“We can stop at Victoria station on the way.” He compromised. “Talk to Skimbleshanks. He’ll know. If it’s that serious, I’ll call dad to meet at the office.” 

He focused on the road but could see a smile tugging at the corners of Tugger’s mouth from his peripheral vision.

“What?” He turned briefly to glance at him.

“Nothing,” Tugger said, before shifting his gaze to look out the passing blur of green-brown-blue of the British countryside. “you’re cute when you’re worried.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole idea is heavily inspired by The Peaky Blinders series and the Kingsman movies and comics. 
> 
> Also, people who have read the first chapter prior to 12th August 2019 - I changed Macavity's age from 36 to 46 years, due to the younger age clashing with a detail that will be revealed later on in the story. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, more coming soon. 
> 
> ~A


	3. Chaper III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't have a lot of free time due to work and university, but I tried to make the chapter longer to compensate. 
> 
> -A

**Victoria Station, 13:51pm **

Mistoffeles grumbled to himself as he finally shut the engine off next to Ebury Street gardens, following ten minutes of angry circling around Victoria station in order to find a spot to park. Tugger had fallen asleep during their journey from the airport, but woke up as soon as Misto started using more interesting Italian to vent his frustration at other cars bullying each other for parking spots. Tugger then proceeded to start a cheerful conversation on how much Misto could benefit from using his powers right around now, to which Misto gave a rant on the known physics of material manipulation and how that would never work. Bickering good-naturedly like a pensioner couple, they got out of the car and quickly made their way to Victoria Place shopping centre. They meant to shortcut through it to get to the station, pausing outside for a minute so Tugger could finish the cigarette he lit up when they got out of the confines of their car. Mistoffeles considered lecturing him on his habit just this once, but decided against it. It was one of Tugger’s oldest addictions, rivalling with his dutiful adherence to changing his mind at breakneck speed in time and execution. He wasn’t one to judge – after a long day at work, both of them would spend hours on their balcony. They took turns emptying the ashtray. 

The station was packed – like it always was, even in the dead of night. Businessmen and women ate lunch at the benches or stood, having stern conversations on their phones. Tourists milled about, looking lost. Commuters ran or walked with purpose to and from trains and into the underground station, out of the multiple exits or disappeared in the shadowy innards of cafes and restaurants. Some form of upbeat music blared from every shop surrounding the main hall, and an announcer seemed to forget to turn her microphone off and added a very loud conversation with a colleague that started with something along the lines of ‘Sharon is such a bitch’ to the chaotic mess. Through which Tugger and Misto headed, hand-in-hand, to the station manager’s office to the left of platforms 14 and 15.

“What kind of person doesn’t carry a phone around with them?” Tugger mused out loud, peering with interest at a coffee shop they were passing. _Of course he would be desperate for an addictive substance already. _

“He’s working and he takes it very seriously,” Misto said, shrugging his shoulders. His five attempts to call Skimble to forewarn him of their arrival ended with voice message and half-hearted Italian swearing. He pointed to the Café Nero Tugger was still peering at, despite it being quite far behind them at this point. “Rum, we have time for coffee if you want some." 

Tugger turned to Misto with a sceptical look on his face. “Do you think he'll have some in his office? They must have some in the staff room. I don’t want to wait in the line.”

“They probably do, but it’ll taste like someone shoving ash down your throat.”

“Not that different from what I do on a daily basis.”

Mistoffeles rolled his eyes and pulled on Rum Tum Tugger’s hand to guide him to a small, dark blue door with a metal sign stating that the ‘_tatio_ Ma_eger’ was inside. He let Tugger have the honours of forcefully rapping his knuckles against the door continuously until the door was swung open in a hurried fashion. It revealed an aged man in his sixties with neatly cut grey hair and a short, well-groomed beard. He was well-built, the only clue to his age being the sparse scattering of wrinkles on his face. He had a permanent sort of frown on that suggested that he was either very short-sighted or constantly suspicious. His blue eyes took the pair standing in front of him in with some scrutiny, before his face broke out in a genuine smile.

“Hello, boys.” He said.

“Hi, Skimble.” Tugger and Misto chorused, both beaming like demons. Misto grew up with Skimbleshanks acting as a grandfather figure to him. A very insensible grandfather figure, who would let a four-year-old shoot cans with a real crossbow, but a less busy one than Deutoronomy was. Tugger was adopted by Skimble’s sister when his parents died on a mission for the Initiative, so he had the wildcard man’s ways rub off on him too. Both of them loved him dearly.

“Why don’t you come in and we’ll have a right proper natter about things.” Skimbleshanks opened the door a bit wider and turned left down a small corridor without a backwards glance. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.” Misto called after him.

“Coffee, three sugars and cold milk!” Tugger chirped in at the same time, and pushed his way into the office. He instantly headed for the plush office chair standing at an oak desk that jutted out of the wall like a shelf. Misto scrambled to get in first once he realised Tugger’s destination and the pair, snickering and kicking, raced for the only comfortable chair in the room. Due to, as Misto claimed, Tugger’s ‘spaghetti-length’ lower limbs, the taller man landed in the seat first. Only, their legs were still entwined from trying to trip each other over, so the result was Mistoffeles casually plopping himself right on Tugger’s lap as soon as the latter sat down. This caused a fight for space to ensue, with Tugger now determined to push Misto off and Misto grabbing at Tugger and the chair to keep himself off the prospect of a concrete floor. “Those sounds you’re making ’s not leaving much for the imagination, pals.” Skimble’s voice complained. “Either can it or take it outside.”

“Nothing sinister, gramps.” Misto called back. “Just – erm –” 

He looked around, trying to find an excuse without explaining their childish behaviour, which Tugger took as a chance to push him clean off himself. 

“Fucking hellhounds, ow!” Misto yapped, colliding with the floor with a dull thud. Somewhere in the next room came the sound of a chuckle, but he must have imagined it amongst the sound of cupboards opening and closing and the distinct rumble of a boiling kettle. Tugger snorted, offering a shaking hand as he seemed to struggle with finding Misto’s expression infinitely amusing and trying to help his boyfriend off the floor. 

“Okay, Okay.” Tugger chuckled, pulling Misto against himself, moving closer to the back of the chair so there was space for Misto to sit in front of him. “Let’s not give Skimbs a heart attack.”

“What’s that?” Skimble walked into the room holding three steaming cups. Misto could feel Tugger’s hands flutter at the prospect of coffee.

“It’s tea.” Skimble said, noting Tugger’s expression. “We ran out of coffee a couple of weeks ago.”

“That’s terrible. I’m leaving.” Tugger declared dramatically, tightening his grip on Misto and not even pretending to budge.

Skimbleshanks shrugged sluggishly, heavily leaning on the edge of his desk while he faced the pair. “Don’t take the Victoria Street exit, that’s been blocked off since the gas leak cover-up.”

Misto sputtered into the mug he was about to take a drink from. 

“What?” he looked up to Skimble with a frown. “We haven't heard anything about what’s been going on in London the whole time we’ve been away.” Misto turned carefully to pass the steaming cup of tea, the one with milk in, to Tugger. He preferred his own tea black. 

Skimbleshanks grunted, slightly surprised. “Innit the point of being up with the important blokes of the family to be kept informed about things?”

“Isn’t the point of a holiday to forget those people exist?” Tugger chimed in hotly. That earned him a smile from the older man.

“Are you ever decent?” Skimble said, moving forward to ruffle Tugger’s hair affectionately. Tugger jerked his head back like a housecat who decided to selectively offer affection to an unknown visitor.

“Not morally, no. But I do consistently appear properly dressed in public.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Misto, grinning. “More’s the pity.” 

“We haven’t really followed any news while we were on holiday,” Misto brought a hand up, gesturing vaguely to keep Tugger in the realm of polite conversation. “family or otherwise. We wanted a quiet holiday.”

Skimbleshanks nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you saved yourself the trouble of hearing your father rip everyone a new one.” He said. “Bombs blew up near Green Park and somewhere in Limehouse about a week ago. Subsequent cyber-break into the Tower of London and the Bank of England. They made the explosions out to be unlinked gas leaks, never even told the public about the breaks.”

“Sounds industrious.” Tugger put in, sounding impressed.

Skimble looked slightly uncomfortable. Misto turned to shoot Tugger a furious look. “Don’t worry, when he says ‘industrious’ he really means ‘debauched.’”

“No, I really do mean industrious,” said Tugger. “and enterprising. When I mean debauched, I say, ‘That seems right up my alley!’”

“Did Scotland Yard start looking into instigators?” Mistoffeles interjected. “Or are they out of their depth?” _When are they ever not? _Tugger mused.

“There was talk, of course, of blaming it on some obscure terror group. But none of them had come forward to pin it on their trophy wall. Which is, you know, uncharacteristic.” Skimbleshanks took a large gulp of his tea before he firmly set it down next to him. Tugger cringed at the thought idea of swallowing that much near-boiling water. Skimble sighed before continuing. “Munkustrap was quick to strap it on Macavity, but that theory fell through when Macavity turned up in the ICU at Bart’s with gunshot wounds.”

“He was shot?” Mistoffeles asked, fingers fluttering over each other.

“No, someone threw the bullet at him.” Tugger supplied eagerly. 

“I don’t really know the details,” Skimble continued. “but I think we’re all now in agreement that someone else is involved. And they’re at least party aware of the Initiative’s existence.”

“What makes you say that?” Tugger said into his mug.

“Because when Munkustrap got to Green Park with his copper crew, there was a card, right in the middle of the crater created by the explosion. They – ”

“What card?” Misto put in. His father’s civilian job as the Metropolitan Police Detective gave him insight to much information that the Initiative would have to take days to uncover on their own. It also made hacking into government files _so _much easier.

Skimble frowned, looking at a spot on the floor in concentration.

“It was a Tarot card. Munkustrap brought it in. It was signed on one side. The other one – ” he paused, closing his eyes. “It had scales on it, and the roman numerals XI at the top. I can’t remember the name at the bottom…”

“Justice.” Tugger supplied. 

Mistoffeles ran his free right hand over his jeans, smoothing out non-existent creases. He hated when cards were involved. “When was all of this?”

“God, you really went off the grid. It’s all over the news.” Skimble laughed. “The bombs and the break-ins last week. Macavity around four AM today.”

“And nothing else? No other… break ins, explosions, trouble?” Double. Why did that double bombing seem so odd to him? Mistoffeles leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. “It seems off.” He felt Tugger’s hands come up to rub his back, a comforting gesture.

“What specifically?” Skimbleshanks put down his mug of tea a little too hard on the table, causing a bit to slosh over the sides and on to the desk. He didn’t seem to notice, looking at Misto with intense interest. The Initiative must truly be lost.

“The double bombing. People who organise these acts of terror– bombings especially – tend to have a message in mind. Think 9/11, or Berlin in 2016. There was always something significant about the date, place, time. Something that – ” Misto stopped speaking abruptly. It clicked then, like an old mechanism finally moving after being dusted and polished. _V for Vendetta. _“I need to go see the Director.” He whispered, standing up and twisting to put his own mug on Skimble’s desk.

Tugger sat up, suddenly alert but not moving off the chair. Mistoffeles only got that glazed-over look and started mentioning family members in third person when he got one of his mad-scientist ideas. Skimble watched the pair with some confusion on his features. “What the hell, Misto?”

“The date, Skimble. The date!” Misto threw over his shoulder, then paused, turning. “Thank you, gramps.” He gave the bewildered station worker a short, hurried hug, before racing out the door.

\--------------

Tugger drained his mug of tea, set it on the table and scrolled through the missed messages on his phone. He felt Skimble’s gaze fix on him. “Wanna break it down for me?” The station manager asked, a little incredulously.

It was very much customary for Mistoffeles to go running after an idea as soon as he caught the beginnings of it forming. In truth, it made him one of the best field agents – he would pursue ideas and possibilities relentlessly, until he was absolutely positive he was at the heart of the problem. But that also made him a control freak which, at the best of times, made him erratic. Tugger liked to think he balanced Misto out in that aspect.

“It’s easy enough, Skimbs.” Tugger grinned up at him, taking his time getting out of the chair. “4thof November. Today is the 4th of November.” He winked at Skimble conspiratorially and gave him a cheerful goodbye before heading out after Misto. His grin dropped as soon as he closed the door behind him. He could almost picture it. _Welcome back to work, Agents. Hope you had a lovely holiday. _He cursed his life under his breath all the way to the car.

\-------------- 

Remember, remember!   
The fifth of November,   
The Gunpowder treason and plot;   
I know of no reason   
Why the Gunpowder treason   
Should ever be forgot!   
Guy Fawkes and his companions   
Did the scheme contrive,   
To blow the King and Parliament   
All up alive.   
Threescore barrels, laid below,   
To prove old England's overthrow.   
But, by God's providence, him they catch,   
With a dark lantern, lighting a match!   
A stick and a stake   
For King James's sake!   
If you won't give me one,   
I'll take two,   
The better for me,   
And the worse for you.   
A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope,   
A penn'orth of cheese to choke him,   
A pint of beer to wash it down,   
And a jolly good fire to burn him.   
Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring!   
Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King!   
Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray!


	4. IV

**New Scotland Yard, 4th floor (Detectives unit), 17:40pm**

Munkustrap settled a paper cup of coffee carefully on a heat-proof pad to the left of his monitor, running a hand along its ridge as he studied the camera footage taken from multiple exits and corridors of Green Park station on October the 29th, 30th and 31st. Forensics team analysed the debris from the site and reported that the bomb was placed at the park only as early as up to three days before the explosion, based on the soil imbedded in the components. That is, if the forensics department didn’t give him different information on the second lab he ordered on the shrapnel they analysed. Then he might have to pull an all-nighter getting the London Underground Service to cough up more footage. Again.

“I’m going home, Jellicle.” A modulated voice behind him said. Violetta, one of his colleagues. Also homicide division. Almost always worked way past her shift time, same as him. He pressed spacebar to pause the footage and turned slightly, acknowledging the fact that she was subtly encouraging him to go home and rest as well.

“See you tomorrow.” He said, turning his back on her again. Out of the majority of the department, V was the person he trusted most to not lecture him on the merits of sleep and, well, a healthy work-life ratio. He heard a _click_ of the office glass screen door shutting in response.

Turning back to the screen, Munkustrap reached for his coffee and tapped on his keyboard to un-pause the video once more. His eyes scanned each person coming in and out of the exit into Green Park. He paused the footage from time to time to note down people of interest. After viewing each camera for an hour, he launched a programme that spat out its own dossier of potential suspects. Reviewing the results, he wondered if going to the Initiative’s headquarters and reviewing the footage on their more sensitive system would be worth the trouble of carrying files of a highly classified case out of and back into Scotland Yard. He let the videos run while he considered it, soldiering through the abhorrent mess of the 5pm Friday rush hour, hoping the perp decided to hide in the thickness of the crowd.

It was a science – spotting a criminal. The downsides of it being that once you learn to be fine-tuned to that certain type of behaviour, you were hyperaware of all criminals. Munkustrap found himself frequently rewinding and following drug dealers and petty thieves before he released his attention once they grabbed a handbag, stole a watch or met a client. For a brief interval of nine minutes he obsessively followed a young man through his journey in Green Park, only to wind back to the beginning of the hour as he watched him duck into an alleyway just outside the park perimeter and pull out a plastic seal bag, nonchalantly popping a pill.

His coffee had turned cold and tasteless when his attention was grabbed by a woman in a red coat exiting the station. She was blond, well-presented, and carried a delicate black Chanel clutch in her left hand. Her lips and heels matched her coat. What was startling about her wasn’t the beauty, nor the looks that nearby men and women gave her – though normally that would be enough to set Munkustrap’s senses off - the underground wasn’t really meant for parading in heels and French couture, but plenty of London’s ‘social club’ individuals chose to take the tube than brave central London traffic. It was the way she carried that small purse. A woman of a thin stature may be able to achieve feats of physical prowess even more impressive than a man of the same weight group – but the adaptation of the body would be vastly different. Laxer ligaments and a general predisposition to hypermobility mean different force absorption. The woman was carrying that purse with an air of ease and grace that fit her appearance – what she couldn’t fake was the subtle shift to her left, the tight fingers notable by the whiteness of her knuckles and the pronounced longer swing of her left arm. That bag was heavy. Not just ‘noticeably’ heavy – unmistakeably, categorically out of the normal weight group of clutch bags. Distantly, somewhere in his blazer, Munkustrap felt the uncomfortable buzz of his phone. He zoomed in on the woman’s face, running the programme selectively on her this time.

The computer froze for a second, his heart with it, and then began the arduous process of comparing the woman’s biometric data to Scotland Yard’s database. If he was back in HQ, he would be able to run it through the FBI, CIA, FSB, Beijing’s and Interpol’s systems remotely. He allowed himself a second deliberation on smuggling the footage out, interrupted by yet another buzz from his phone. He reached into his blazer to pull it out, seeing three missed calls from Mistoffeles and one more from Demeter. _Shit._ He thought. _I forgot about dinner_. He would have to make it up to her tomorrow. He promised himself to answer within the hour.

They were certainly used to his silences. For a man of 47, Munkustrap was uncharacteristically energetic when it came to his second chosen profession - valuing the job over a sensible sleeping pattern. Or human interaction. That was the primary reason for his divorce with Mistoffeles’s mother, Louisa. A socialite, journalist and a generally lovable, bubbly Italian woman he met by chance on a mission in Milan. Two children. 1999. More work, more responsibility as his father, Deutoronomy, stepped down from leadership of JI and public business. Brutal divorce. It didn’t bother him, then – the effect he had - the destructive force of the commander personality. He wasn’t quite sure it bothered him enough now. Eight years later, the Jellicle Initiative base in London began a new programme, taking in trainees from around the world for specialisation in elite positions in the tactical division. That is how he met Demeter – the brilliant Oxford graduate, rich Israeli background, formerly working at the Tehran J.I. office. A secluded speck outside of the main city, completely self-serviced. The London faction was more concentrated, more diverse. They tried to keep people alive, in their day-to-day lives, in their own way, in ‘normal’ jobs. Simulating ‘normal’ life. Some agents were required to work every day – they had their own cover stories. They thought she wouldn’t last five minutes in the training programme. By the end of the month, she had not only reached top of her class but had bested a seemingly impossible scenario simulation Munkustrap had created himself. It was like falling in love with wildfire. It still burned him, calmed him, seven years on.

Munkustrap leaned back into his chair, taking a deep breath in. His phone gave a quick, sharp buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out, the screen turning on as he held it up to read the text. It was from Mistoffeles.

“Need to talk, I’ll be outside SY in 10 minutes.”

He placed the phone screen up on his table, instructing himself to check it once in a while so he’ll buzz his son into the building. His vision was turning blurry around the edges, and he rubbed his eyes, willing the damn programme to work faster. How many hours of sleep did he have in the last five days? Ten? Nine? Collectively, maybe. It was easier not to count. He distracted himself by grabbing the case file, absorbing his aching eyes in minuscule print and dry reading material. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered why Mistoffeles wanted to speak to him so urgently. Wasn’t he just back from his holiday? Probably found out about the attacks. Munkustrap’s pulse still sped a little when he thought about that. The call from his second-in-command, Admetus, came seconds after the explosion in Green Park. Then more calls from different agents from different parts of London – Bank of England! Limehouse! Tower of London! And he could hardly drop the case file he was then holding over a cadaver and jump into action. He did demand to be put on the case, though. Rather vehemently. His track record meant that his superiors didn’t even blink about giving the case to someone outside the counter-terrorism department. 

He pulled out a photo of a close up on one of the debris details found closest to the epicentre of the explosion. It was a matted, discoloured lump of leather that may have, at one point in its life, had not been a dirty brown colour. Another photo featured a chain link, splattered with what was most likely dried blood and looking like a haunted mansion prop, but could have, in better times, been gently coated with 24 carat gold. There was a scrap of derelict-looking cloth next to it featuring a delicate, banged-up metal ‘C’ embedded in the fabric. It looked like –

“Chanel.” Munkustrap murmured to himself, then darted his gaze around. He could hear the night shift come in for the change-over on the lower floors, coffee mugs and boots banging as people settled in for a long work night. No one would even think to come up to the fourth floor until 5am. There was no one there to listen to him madly ramble designer brands under his breath.

The photographs he was holding were illuminated in that moment by a red flashing light coming from the computer monitor. The programme has not only finished its analysis, it has started to have a full-fledged hissyfit for being ignored for three seconds. He tapped the ‘lower volume’ button on his keyboard violently, in anticipation for the ringing that followed a red alert status. This investigation was breaching the limit of Scotland Yard’s capabilities at considerable velocity. But then, when were the cases he took ever solved with Scotland Yard’s comparatively insignificant budget? He refused to acknowledge the slight trembling in his hands as he started typing rapidly, printing out the report as fast as possible. The monitor was crimson in front of him, emitting a distinct high-pitched ring. _What a drama queen. _He thought. His phone buzzed again, startling him as he yanked the paper the printer spat out with a resonant ‘chk-shrrrr’, beeped some incomprehensible morse-code, and promptly shut itself off. Even the printers were emotionally unstable from the stress. He grabbed the top sheet of paper, turning it to see what the system matched up.

**Aliases:** Morgana May Quinn (born), Evgeniya Filipova (past), Johanna Shulz (past), Capucine Laurent (past), Caroline Elizabeth Fox (last used)

**Date(s) of birth used:** 04.06.1990, 06.04.1991 (actual)

**Place of birth:** Kilkenny, Ireland.

**Height:** 5’6” / 168cm

**Weight:** approx. 118lbs / 55kg

**Nationality:** Irish, French

**Hair:** Blonde (dyed), Red (natural)

**Eyes:** Blue

**Sex:** Female

**Race:** Caucasian (white Irish)

**Language(s):** English, French, German, Russian.

**Status:** Wanted in the UK, Ireland, EU and US for multiple counts of first-degree murder, including high-profile assassinations of two French officials.

Below was a photo of Quinn the last time Interpol managed to track her down in Brussels, dated a year ago. Munkustrap breathed a curse, grabbed all the paperwork and moved to get up from his seat, heading to the elevators that would take him to the main lobby so he could authorise access to a – judging by the aggravated pinging of his phone – very unhappy Mistoffeles.

The officer at reception let his son through the gates as soon as he saw Munkustrap step out of the sleek elevator doors.

“What took you so long?” Mistoffeles demanded in a way of greeting. They had a very tender relationship.

“Found something,” Munkustrap said informatively. “something that’s more company territory.” He added in a hush, scanning his key card and jamming the elevator button a little harder than necessary. There was audio recording in the elevator, not particularly good quality, but he didn’t think it was necessary to test the sensitivity of the technology without a scrambler on hand. He turned the paperwork he was holding nonchalantly away from the camera and twisted to look at Misto, noting the way he had managed to tan even in autumnal Rome. He’d grown his hair out – looked rested. Instead of voicing any of that, he said: “Don’t cross your arms, you look like a petulant child.”

Mistoffeles glared at him sidelong, unhooking his arms to fiddle with the hem of his blue sweater. “Nice too see you too. Me and Tugger had a lovely holiday, since you didn’t ask.” 

They were a really tight-knit family. 

The elevator gave a loud _ping _as it reached the fourth floor, opening into an open plan office. They both headed to an array of enclosed glass spaces on the left side of the office floor that served as Munkustrap’s and the other lead detectives’ personal offices. Reaching his seat, he placed the file face up for Mistoffeles to see, stretching an open palm over to one of the two plush visitor’s chairs as an invitation to sit down. Mistoffeles ignored the gesture in favour of standing.

“I need to tell you something.” Said Misto distractedly, eyes already scanning the document.

“I need you and Rumford to build a file on everything you can possibly get about this woman.”

“For what purpose?” Misto cringed away from the table slightly. “and please don’t call him that, he prefers Tugger.”

“Possible involvement in the terror attacks.” Munkustrap said, ignoring the latter statement.

Mistoffeles looked at his father, and Munkustrap could not help but see his own younger reflection as he watched the gears click into place in his son’s eyes. “I need to know what you’re dragging agents into.”

“Telling you would put you in even more danger.”

“We’re always in danger.”

Munkustrap dragged a hand through his hair, dislodging the carefully gelled locks. “Welcome back.” Then he paused. “You wanted to tell me something.”

“I think there’s going to be another attack.”

Munkustrap shifted his grey gaze to the window overlooking the Thames. “Based on what evidence?”

“Tomorrow’s the 5th of November. Whoever’s doing this is doing it on purpose, to draw attention to themselves. Perfect day for it, don’t you think?” 

“Even if you’re right, we have no bloody clue where the next bomb could be.”

“We have about 28 hours to figure it out. At least find out who’s at the base of it, work from there”

“We know who –”

“Macavity is in Bart’s”

“I’m aware.” Munkustrap gave a curt nod. "Does not tell us much. What do you think of the file?" 

“This woman,” Misto waved the photo in front of Munkustrap’s face for emphasis, “and Macavity. You think they’re interconnected somehow?”

“Him getting shot and parts of London blowing up are not a coincidence.” Munkustrap reasoned. “If you get me that information, we can meet for lunch tomorrow and get a team ready. Whatever you get will have to be good, we’ll need a plan by evening.” He handed him a copy of the active Scotland Yard case, as well as the forensics report, both in sleek manila folders. 

“What are you going to do in the meantime? Family reunion?”

Munkustrap shot his son a dark look. “We can’t presume Macavity hasn’t involved himself in something so deep it went out of his own control. I’m thinking of talking to a more neutral party.”

Mistoffeles gave Munkustrap an exasperated look, cottoning on to his father’s meaning.

“Neutral? They’re hardly neutral.” Said Mistoffeles. He grabbed an empty pink foolscrap folder off Munkustrap’s desk and jamming the case files inside. “They’re a flight risk more than anything.”

“I’ll call by their apartment in Victoria Grove tomorrow.”

“You’re probably not going to find them there” Mistoffeles noted. “They’re always out.”

“I’ll call by anyway.” Munkustrap growled back, already putting on his dusty grey coat and taking long strides towards the lift. Misto followed, dragging his car keys out of his pocket.

__________________________________________________

“Michael? Mr.Jellicle? You are in the Intensive Care Unit at Saint Bart’s hospital, my name is Dr. Stephanie Lewin. Can you hear me?”

Macavity’s head throbbed with the strain of waking up from a morphine-fuzzed sleep. He nodded carefully in the general direction of the voice, not so much opening his eyes as squinting to let as little light register on the retina as possible.

“Can you tell me your full name?” Dr.Lewin prompted, glancing at a chart in her hand. 

“Macavity Jellicle” Macavity rasped, foregoing the middle names.

“Your date of birth and occupation, please.”

“April 13th, 1973. MI5.” Macavity’s vision blurred slightly when he opened his eyes fully, the blurry image of a curly brown bob of hair to his left a stark contrast to the white of the clinic coat and the harsh lights of the ward. “I’m fine” he said. 

“That’s for me to decide. Who is the current prime minister?”

“I don’t really like to talk about it.” Dr.Lewin held in a laugh at that, glancing up from her notes. “You’re just fine, alright.”

“You were operated for pneumothorax of the right lung, –” Dr.Lewin glanced at Macavity’s blank features and amended: “Your lung collapsed when your ribs broke when the bullets hit your chest.”

“Lucky I was wearing the vest.”

“Indeed, you are.” She said idly, taking a second look at a chart in her hands. “Michael, do you –”

“It’s Macavity.”

“Yes.” Dr.Lewin peered at him, her mouth tightening into a line. “You’re going to need stitches in your head, and we will be monitoring you for any signs of infection or complications for the next 48 hours, after which you are free to be picked up to go home. Is there anyone you would like me to call?” She added kindly.

“No.”

Dr.Lewin pursed her lips at that but said nothing. “Nurses will be in and out over the next 24 hours monitoring blood pressure, glucose levels, keeping the drip going. I will see you tomorrow for a check-in.” She paused, examining him. Macavity nodded once, in understanding. “There’s a button on your right to call for a nurse if you need anything. Your personal items are in the chest of drawers over there.” She waved at the large window on the right-hand side of the room, beside which sat a chest of drawers in sterile white. Replacing the clipboard to the foot of his bed, Dr.Lewin gave him a curt smile before strutting out and shutting the door behind her.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Came a Brummie drawl from a curtained plinth in the far-right hand corner across from him. He would have started if he wasn’t so sluggish. The coarse fabric shifted to reveal Griddlebone, sitting cross legged, looking like someone spat in her birthday cake. His pain-in-the-ass spider.

“You brought me in.” He mused, his journey to the hospital deducing itself to logical continuity.

“You’re a next-level bellend.” Griddlebone growled back, tucking her hands into her leather jacket and stalking to Macavity’s side. Freckles littered her lean face; dark hair was smoothed back into a sleek bun. Her ensemble was incredulously vile as always; black jeans, black boots, black zip-up under a black leather jacket. The picture of a twenty-year old anarchist. She had a poise that lingered somewhere between an acrobat and a mugger. “You bled all over my favourite shirt.” she said. “Should’ve just taken a photo and left, would’ve collected a royal amount of money from the New Cuts.” She pronounced it as ‘Noo Cots’, her vowels pronounced and stretched. 

“That stings.”

“You’ll heal.”

There was a few minutes of aggravated silence, in which Griddlebone carefully looked over Macavity’s drips and checked his chart, whilst Macavity pretended not to notice her and attempted to sit up.

“They called the police, by the way.” Griddlebone said thoughtfully, ignoring Macavity’s laboured breathing and the incessantly increasing frequency of beeps from the heart monitor as he tried to change position.

“Unsurprising.” He gasped out, his ribcage burning. Stats showed heart rate north of 125.

“There’s a button for that on your remote.” Griddlebone added lightly, nose still buried in his paperwork.

He didn’t bother thanking her, instead tapped the button to elevate the plinth’s headboard until he didn’t feel like his chest was going to explode from the slight change in pressure.

“They are going to –”

“Discharge you in 48 hours if there are no complications.” Griddlebone finished. She replaced the clipboard in its place at the end of the bed and braced her hands on the sleek metal footboard. “You gonna call a meetin’?” She asked, chewing on her lower lip.

Macavity wondered at that. “No,” he decided. “Not yet. But I do need you to get a message to someone in Victoria Grove.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rushed, imperfect, but hopefully gets the point across.   
Hoping for more updates since everyone is in lockdown, but online uni is kicking my ass :(
> 
> Stay safe, everyone! Take it from a med student, the best way to help is by staying the fuck home!
> 
> -A

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I'll be back with a chapter within the next two weeks, hopefully. 
> 
> ~A


End file.
